Dinner at VKV on 'Sari Friday' ...if you own a sari, it must be worn

Mom on a bike...hahaha

Midnight music party

music parties were fun. usually we had folk songs with guitar backup and violin backup but there was also a mrdumgum (drum in picture) a tabla, a few mrsings (jaw harps), some flutes, it was great.

A song was written for Ravi, the security guard...
And on the last day, we performed our compositions, accompanied by guitar, laughetr, and tears in equal measure.

An Excellent Saturday

The second Saturday at VKV was memorable to say the least. And busy. Mom has already described the visit to Sarath’s home(s) in detail, so I will merely say that Indian hospitality far outshines the Western standards, and that they made me feel as welcome and at home as a family member, but as spoiled as a princess. To say the food was delicious is an insult – it was much more, although they said they just threw something together for lunch. I asked Sarath if I could borrow his mother for a few months and take her home to cook for me. He said yes, to my endless delight. And the houses were beautiful, especially the second one, the one where Sarath grew up. You could tell it was well loved and eagerly waiting to be re-inhabited by a happy family.

Sarath’s grandmother is an exceptional, beautiful woman. I wish I could have spoken with her, listened to the stories that Sarath says she tells, just stared at her for a while. Even though I could not, however, it was very moving just to give her a hug and get a kiss on the cheek, and see her smile at her grandson and his friends. She is very old so her body is frail and we were all careful. But at the same time there was a strength radiating from her that gave the illusion that nothing could really stand in her way.

As we were leaving, I tried to think of some way to thank Sarath and to explain how moved I was by the visit to his home. In the end, I simply said, “Thank you for having me over today, even though I’m not in your class. It has been really wonderful to be in a home again after traveling for so long, even though the home is not mine.” I think he understood.

We got back to VKV at 4:15. I had resigned myself to missing the trip to see Amma when we left Sarath’s house so late, but I just made it. The car was scheduled to leave at 4:30. Of the five of us who visited Sarath, I was the only one to run upstairs, throw on new clothes, and rush back, ready to go. The others said they were too tired, although mom says she wished she had gone afterwards. I think they were worried it would be a big hassle, when in reality it ended up being fairly easy. In the end, six of us piled into the car. It took us under an hour to drive from Arunmalla to Tiruvalla. When we arrived, there was a great feeling of festivity in the air. We’d arrived early to get good seats, but the section was already full. But we were in luck. Because we were tourists and had come such a long way, and because it was everybody’s first time to see Amma except for me, we got directed to the very front and got to sit with the people who lived at her ashram. We were off in a corner, but it was still wonderful to be so close to the stage. Chloe kept saying, and it was true, how happy she was to be here because this felt like “the real thing, the real India”. Amma is a saint who accepts all people and who travels the world to share her message, but India is still her place.

The program began with various people welcoming Amma and her giving them garlands. Speeches seem to last forever when you can’t understand what is being said. After other people had talked for a while, Amma talked as well. I assume this was more interesting, but still couldn’t understand a thing. So it was a great relief when the singing started. The religious chants were beautiful, but it was Amma’s face that made it so special. She was absolutely radiant. And sometimes, as though she could no longer contain her happiness, Amma would shout out the name of whichever god they were singing to, and then start laughing. It was a beautiful sight to see and it made me feel completely and entirely happy. The incredible thing is that everybody else was happy too: 100,000 people or more, in a relatively small place, and every one of them singing and happy.

A little after 10:00 Amma began giving darshan, the hug blessing. Before she’d arrived, we had asked around and gotten tickets for the hug but we still didn’t know exactly how to proceed. Cecilia, a brazilian girl, and I decided to just jump in line and see what happened. We got lucky! Because everyone in our group except me was meeting Amma for the first time, we were in the first group. But since nobody was calling out “A1 tickets, form a cue here” and everybody else seemed to know what they were doing, Cecilia and I were the only ones awake enough and excited enough to venture into the crowds. We showed our tickets and were pushed to the front without being given the chance to go back and collect our friends. Before we knew it, we were walking up the ramp to the stage, hurrying through a minimal security check, had our bags taken, our faces wiped, and I was instructed to take off my glasses.

The closer we got, the more chaotic it was. Three ramps converged around Amma and she just grabbed the person nearest to her and hugged them. In retrospect, it was quite symbolic. The only haven from the pushing and shoving was in Amma’s arms. She pressed something into my hand and whispered a prayer in my ear. Then the brief respite was over and I was pulled away again. I got jostled into a corner, but was then invited to sit on the stage behind Amma. I got jostled back in her direction and someone gave me a hand up. Relief! I picked my way through about twenty other lucky people, Cecelia on my heels, and we sat down for a bit and just watched Amma give blessing after blessing. I opened the little brown packet that was gripped tightly in my hand. Inside was a little sweet, a piece of hard candy to suck on. Cecelia ate hers, but I wrapped mine back up. I gave it to Mom that night when we got back so she could have a bit of Amma’s blessing as well.

Cecelia didn’t stay on the stage for long. We had no idea where our friends were but thought they were probably waiting for us. So after ten minutes or so, we clambered back off stage, through the crowds of people. I got my purse back and we headed for our seats. No one was there! So we decided that everyone would have drive home in the car so that was the obvious meeting place. Just as we were about to cross the street, someone yelled. They had found us. It was nice not to have to worry anymore. Cecelia and I were still in seventh heaven, and would have been happy to wait for everyone else to get darshan, but they were tired and Leah wasn’t feeling well.

We decided to stop for dinner at a small restaurant the driver recommended, where we amused ourselves by playing with the owner’s son. He looked about 2 or 3 and was absolutely adorable and mischievous. Charlotte showed him her camera, which he loved. He took picture after picture of himself and everybody else. And he was not pleased when it was taken away. So I picked him up and spun him around a few times until he was too dizzy to find the camera. We had a lovely dinner, and I was very homesick by the end. I couldn’t help wondering how much mischief he would get into if I introduced him to Zachariah, the two-year-old I baby-sit. I think between the two of them, they could demolish an entire city!

We got home surprisingly early. We’d expected to get home around 1 or 2 in the morning because we’d expected to have to wait in line to get Darshan. So when I bounced into the room at 11:30, Mom was still awake. We talked for a bit, and I gave Mom the sweet. I think I managed to pass on some of Amma’s happiness through my own excitement.

I went to bed thoroughly exhausted and thoroughly happy. It was a good day.

Midnight music parties

There were few midnight music parties at VKV, which were lots of fun. I brought my fiddle (which was constantly being changed between Carnatic and western tuning), Leah and Charlotte brought guitars and a whole group of us sat on balconies and roofs and played music. It all began on Bella’s birthday when Leah and I gave Bella “musical presents”. I played an Irish set and the Monti Czardas and Leah sang a folk song and played guitar. Everyone enjoyed themselves so much that the following night we gathered at Chloe and Bella’s house to celebrate the full moon. Drinks and snacks were bought, candles were lit, and we sat around for hours talking and playing and singing and writing songs. I even climbed a ladder at one point so I could be “the fiddler on the roof” (It was a more or less flat roof, unlike in the movie). So everyone joined me and we lay on the roof and looked at the moon and the stars. The experience was repeated two more times, and each of them was magical. It’s amazing how a bond can be formed with someone overnight, because of music and starlight and candles and an openness to the cozy feelings of camaraderie.

I mentioned that we even wrote a few songs. First was The Dhoti Song. Charlotte and Chloe decided that dhotis were very nice and they wanted to buy one each and wear them. (I was a bit dubious, but it actually looked really good on them because they have straight figures.) Anyway, in honor of their fashion statement, the dhoti song was written. We even performed it at dinner, complete with melodramatic violin solo and fake mustache. It was a great hit among the tourists, but the Indians at the table looked more confused than anything. After our first somewhat successful song-writing venture, we wrote a song for Ravi, the security guard. To understand the song, one must know Ravi. He is quite shy and doesn’t say much, but he takes his job very seriously. Whenever we stay out past the 10:00 curfew, he checks up on us and walks us home when we’re ready to get some sleep. He also has a very sweet smile, which somehow perfects him. So we wrote him a song and sang it to him when he came to check on us. He had vacated the building by the time the first verse was finished. We all had a good, but entirely friendly, laugh about this and admitted that if any one of us had walked into a room full of single men who were serenading us we would probably feel less than comfortable. But Bella and Chloe had no pity and when he escorted them home they walked on either side of his bike and sang the entire thing to him – more than once. And he couldn’t leave because he felt responsible for them. Fortunately, he didn’t seem at all traumatized by the experience and smiled at us all, especially Bella, more than ever.

Our final song was written for Bala, the manager at VKV. Bala is an amazing person. He works constantly to make sure everyone has an enjoyable time, arranges class schedules, Ayurvedic massages, astrology appointments, rickshaw driving lessons, etc. He makes sure that everything runs smoothly at VKV, and he does an excellent job. And yet, even though you know he must be constantly busy, he is always more than happy to take the time to talk to students, ask how classes are going, find out if you went to afternoon tea, and just chat if that’s what a person wants to do. So we wrote him a (richly-deserved) song and performed it on the last day. Of our core rooftop-music-party-gang only Leah is left. Bella and Chloe were only at VKV for 3 weeks and Charlotte, Sae-jean, and I left after a month. So it was a very bitter-sweet performance and when it was finished, Bala had over-bright eyes. My memories of VKV will certainly be cherished forever. Even though I hope to go back, and some other people want to have a reunion in a few years, I strongly suspect that it won’t be quite the same. Just as good, I hope, but different. I suppose that is life, and that it is the changes, the differences that make the journey through life so interesting; but there are moments when you wish you could just freeze time and stay in one place for a while.

VKV stories

I have told you how the bulk of my time was spent at VKV, but it’s the little stories that bring a place to life. I think we had a particularly excellent batch of students. We must have; it can’t be so special all of the time. And even over the month we were there, some of the magic disappeared as some more people moved on.

Two young British women, Bella and Chloe, had the excellent idea of starting a series of cricket matches. Teams were picked fairly, with an equal number of Indian stars and pathetic, inexperienced westerners. Bella was really the heart of the game; she’s yell from the sidelines, cheer on the Tigers whenever we made a run, boo the Elephants, encourage newcomers. And Chloe is a PE teacher, so she was a great coach. The staff who were not playing (the women) laughed that all these crazy westerners were running around without their scarves and making fools out of themselves. I never thought cricket could be so much fun!

Another tradition we began at VKV was the customary jaunt down to the river after Kalari class. Kalari is India’s martial art, and it is brutally hard on beginners. Before a student gets to learn anything exciting, or useful in a fight, they have to do exercises to make their bodies stronger and more flexible. Which means it was both painful and somewhat boring. By the end of the hour long class, everybody was sweaty and hot and tired and sore. So we’d wander down to the river and jump in, fully clothed, right as the sun was setting. It was fantastic fun, and we did it quite a few times even though we were warned that the river was a bit polluted. However, after the first week, the daily swim stopped. Too many people dropped out of Kalari. (I did too, but that is because my knee collapsed because I was being competitive and pushed myself too hard, too fast - after not training for so long – and did not pay attention to what my body was telling me.)

So the sunset swim failed, but there was an up side to my knee collapsing. I’d already visited Sarath, Mom’s Ayurveda teacher, in the first week to consult about my asthma. So when I returned for my check-up, I asked about my knee as well. He prescribed four massages, three of which took place on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Mom and I went to the hospital around four each day, where I had my ½ hour massage, and then we sat in Sarath’s office for a few extra hours and just talked and told stories. It was fantastic, one of my favorite memories of VKV. By Saturday, I had elicited an invitation to visit his family’s house with the Ayurveda class. (I will describe this later – it deserves its own post.) When I returned for my final massage on Monday (Sarath was not entirely pleased I had skipped on the weekend) I was told that my knee was still in pretty bad shape. So Mom and I went to the hospital every day that week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoons was spent in excellent company. The massages themselves alternated between being relaxing and excruciating. The worst one was when Dr. Amma, the supervising Dr., came to examine my knee after the first few massages. She has hands of steel! The young women who had been massaging me before were as gentle as lambs by comparison. I had bruises forming before the massage was finished! Fortunately, the massages seem to have helped. While my knee still hurts a bit, it feels much stronger. I do not think it will collapse again anytime soon. The asthma medicine is also helping, I think, but it is harder to tell because I have been controlling it fairly well lately. The medicine is also revolting in every sense of the word. Sarath has now given me about four liters of medicine to cart around India for the next two months. I think I will be very diligent about taking them, because they will be gone sooner.

But cures aside, it was the pleasure of Sarath’s company that made the trips to the Ayurvedic hospital such a pleasure. He has gained the rank of “adopted elder brother” in my book. At first, he seemed so serious, even though he smiled a lot. Being a doctor, you know, is a very serious job. Maybe it was all just in my head that he was terribly serious; he soon banished my assumptions with stories of his college days. He claimed that all this was behind him, but still took great pleasure in feeding Mom’s Echinacea to all the staff at the hospital and all of his family members with the single exception of his two-year-old nephew. (Dr. Amma also escaped – although Sarath kept a perfectly straight face, she knew him too well and didn’t trust the suspicious looking bottle in his hand.) To be fair, I also thoroughly enjoyed watching Hari’s expression change from unwary curiosity, to surprise, to laughter. Everyone had a good time.

One day at the hospital was particularly lovely. In the morning, my violin teacher had asked me if I like Kerala. I said, “yes, it’s great” in a very unrevealing sort of way. He told me that saying it was great meant nothing at all; was there anything I didn’t like. So I thought for a little while, than admitted that I wished it rained more. The more I thought about it, the more I missed the rain. A really good storm, where the clouds are dark and full; when they break, the drops fall on you are big and round and heavy; the smell of the dirt right when it first starts to soak up all that new water.

That afternoon, right as we got in the rickshaw to go to the hospital, I got my wish. The sky opened and the rain began to wash away all the dust and grime. Rickshaws are open on the sides, but they have a tarp that can be opened when it rains. I kept the corner of my tarp down and peeked out at the drenched countryside. When we arrived, I spun around a few times before waltzing inside on a cloud of happiness. I think everyone laughed at me a bit, but that’s all right. I enjoyed it so much that I think they did too. And the power was out, so we sat in the cozy little office, with a candle lit, and talked and drank hot tea. It was a magical hour. And when I went for my massage, the rain drummed a tattoo on the tin roof above the massage bed. The next time it rained, Sarath made sure to show me the view from the back door, which showed the river and the green trees instead of a dusty parking lot. I was entirely happy with a dusty parking lot if it rained, so you can imagine how I felt looking out at the river. So I danced in the rain some more. I hope he realized when I thanked him for showing me how much I really enjoyed it.

On one of our last days at the hospital, Mom convinced me to bring my violin and I gave a mini-concert. After I’d finished my performance, Sarath commented on how nice it would be to play an instrument but that he’d never had a chance to learn one. I pulled my newly-acquired Mursing (jaw-harp) out of my purse and told him that this was an easy instrument to pick up. I demonstrated the basics, which is all I can demonstrate, and then he tried. He was actually pretty good – better than my first try, at any rate. Not that that’s saying anything. So I gave it to him with the stipulation that if I came back to VKV he would give me a concert. I doubt that will happen, but hopefully he will have fun with it.

Classes at Vijnana Kala Vedi

How can I describe a month spent at VKV (Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural Center)? Certainly a large contributor to my happy experience there was the excellent staff. Everybody - from the manager/organizer Bala, to Hari and Rajesh who served food, and Geeresh and Mureli who cleaned, to Ravi, our very own security guard – was eager to help. And if help was not needed, a bright smile was still provided.

My days were very similar, for the most part, especially after the first week. I would rise around 7:30 so I could be at breakfast by 8:00 or 8:15. On M, W, F there was a group yoga class from 7:30-8:30 but I didn’t attend many classes because that extra ½ hour of sleep from 7 -7:30 was so tempting. My first class, Bharata Natyam, was from 9-11. I had an excellent teacher, Sujatha, and we really enjoyed each other’s company. She had high expectations but was understanding. My biggest problem was in sitting properly. Oh, and I never smiled while dancing because I was busy concentrating on steps and mudras (the hand signs) and rhythm and sitting deeply and raising my eyebrows and turning out my knees and bending the upper half of my body to the side without moving my hips or leaning forward. Sujatha got tired of telling me to “smile please”. She would simply stop calling out rhythms and wait until I was smiling again, saying she refused to teach me anything more until I smiled. I finally ripped a page out of my notebook and wrote “smile please” on it, then decorated it with smiling faces and a giant, happy sun and lots of flowers. We hung it in the front of the classroom and every time I looked at it I remembered to smile because it was so silly looking.

There are three dance forms taught at VKV: Bharata Natyam, Mohiniyattam, and Kathakali. All three have the same root and are based on the Natya Shastram by Bharata Muni, a legendary tome of dance knowledge. Bharata Natyam was developed in Tamil Nadu; the other two were developed in Kerela. Bharata Natyam is much more martial and solid than Mohiniyattam, a slower, more fluid dance form. Kathakali is very distinctive; it involves costumes and extensive makeup and tells very detailed stories.

I had two hours of dance every morning for a month. Unfortunately, my violin classes were less consistent. The violin teacher was not there the first day. I was told he would be there by Wednesday. But on Tuesday, Bala told me that he actually wouldn’t be there all week and would I like to take a replacement class. I decided on woodcarving. I was actually quite happy with the new arrangement; woodcarving is something I’d never tried before and it would produce some finished product that I could bring home and show people. I began work on an Ohm tile the following day. The violin teacher finally showed up on the second Wednesday of my stay. I continued to take woodcarving until Friday, so I could finish my piece, but added violin to my schedule as well. (The typical VKV schedule is one 2-hr. class and one 1-hr. class, but you can take an extra 1-hr class for a little more money if the scheduling works. It really is a great place; you can learn various Carnatic instruments, cooking, Ayurvedic medicine, different dance forms, Hindi, Malayallam, or Sanskrit, or woodcarving or mural painting. It is an excellent introduction for a westerner into the world of Indian Art.)

My violin teacher was a bit surprised with my high level of playing, I don’t mind telling you. He’d been told that I’d studied western music, but I think most people who played in their high school orchestra ten years ago say they have studied violin. He was rather taken aback when I played through the first 10 exercises without any real difficulty; especially since I couldn’t read the music and was simply memorizing everything he played at me.

Reading the music proved to be the most difficult thing for me throughout the course of my lessons, which is unfortunate really. Carnatic music is different from anything I’ve studied before and I think there are many subtleties that I did not have the opportunity to grasp. Once again, I think the teacher was used to teaching beginners the basics and did not quite know how to teach someone who had such technical control, but no knowledge of Carnatic music. By the time someone reaches my level, if they had been studying only Carnatic music, they will not need a lecture on what Ragas and Thalam are.

The other sad thing, aside from getting only compositions and no interesting lectures, is that my teacher said I could have had my Arengetum (first concert) if I had been there a week longer. And He missed the first week!!! Oh well, it is encouragement to go back. I could have had a mini concert, maybe half an hour, but the pieces would have been poorly prepared and an Arengetum is a big deal. It is a student’s introduction to the Artist’s world, so it is very “inauspicious” to have a bad, or shortened, Arengetum. (Inauspicious is a word that is used a lot around here.)

I feel the need to give a brief explanation about Ragas and Thalam. A Thala is a measure of beats. Adhi Thala is the first one I learned; it is a simple eight-count. You slap your knee with your left palm for one, then count 2, 3, 4 with your pinky, ring and middle fingers respectively. 5 is with the palm again, six with the back of your hand, seven with your palm, and eight with the back. Then you begin again. Easy, right? Within each beat are four quarter beats, but that is simple division and does not need to be physically counted. I am usually pretty good at feeling the beat, but had some trouble with demonstrating this fact using the standard procedure. I had a tendency to count with my index, middle and ring fingers rather than my pinky, ring and middle fingers. Unacceptable!

Ragas are scales, but not like A major or F# minor are scales. Ragas are based on the Satvaswari, or seven notes. These seven notes can be anywhere as long as each relationship between the notes remains the same. Think of Do, Re, Me, Fa, So, La Ti, Do. Except that the notes are called Sa, Ri, Ga, Ma, Pa, Da, Ni, Sa and there are approximately 70 different ways of organizing them where the ascending and descending scales are the same. And they are written in the Malayallam script. (I actually requested him to teach me in the Malayallam script so that if I bought a music book I would be able to read it. I did buy a music book…but it’s in English. Oh well.) Like Do, Sa can be any note and the rest of the scale changes as needed. Sa and Pa are always a perfect fifth apart, but the other notes can be flatted or sharped, or taken out all together, to create the different ragas. It is the taking out of notes that makes improvisation particularly difficult in Carnatic Music. Singers have a particularly rough time with the improvisation because they have to sing the syllable of the note they are playing; I was glad not to have to worry about that. Ragas are fascinating. Certain ragas are supposedly particularly charming at certain times of the day – morning ragas or evening ragas, etc. Some ragas are said to be beneficial to certain organs. For example, an Ayurvedic doctor might tell a patient with a liver disease to listen to compositions in Mohanam Raga. (This was just a random example, I have no idea about whether Mohanam Raga is beneficial to the liver, but it is something I would like to study more. I already have tentative plans to return.)

So, to sum up after that digression: for the week 1 ½ I had 2 hrs of dance and 1 hr of woodcarving; for the second half of the second week, I added an extra hour of violin; for the third week, I dropped woodcarving but convinced Bala to allow me 2 hrs of both violin and dance. But because both my teachers were only available in the morning, I had my dance class from 9-11 and then hurried over to my violin class (in another house) from 11-1 and then ran to lunch. The final three days at VKV were a bit crazy for me. To make up for the hours of missed violin classes, an extra 1 ½ hrs were added in the afternoon, which meant I had a 2 hr dance class, a 3 ½ hr violin class (happily interrupted by lunch) and both teachers expected me to practice. But I survived. It wasn’t actually that bad, I just enjoy making mountains out of mole-holes. I had a great time.

Linda: Pure Simplicity. Utter Freedom, March 29

Pure Simplicity. Utter Freedom.

An hour by jeep into a desert in one of the farthest corners of India. Meeting the tribal camel herders who would be our guide. Mounting, with delightful gyrations, these unique creatures. Trotting on a camel under a cloud streaked sky. Parts of the low lying lands are damp from a blessed rain. Six of us will be going out into the desert with our host and guides. Everyone is happy.

What amazing animals. They are like a horse in that you are free to run across the open land, feeling the warmth and movement of life under you and the sun and wind in your hair. The movement underneath is familiar and comfortable. In the wild, with this animal, I am completely and instantly at home. It is the wedding of the love of wild and open places and the horses I once rode.

Like a horse, and not. Their lumbering walk. Lying on the ground with legs folded underneath – can that be comfortable? The distinctive smile, as if all is a joke that only they understand. And the observant nature – they watch every movement of the people and are constantly smelling the wind. As I became better at observing Robert, the camel I rode, I could tell when we were coming closer to other camels minutes before they would appear over a dune. But the fundamental and overpowering difference was in the mode of communication between the rider and the animal. A horse loves to communicate with its rider. They enjoy the contact of leg on side, the fingertip pulls on the rein, the reassuring clucks of the tongue. They love the dialogue and are intensely aware of the mood and humor and experience of the person who rides. The camel, the camel seems much more independent. They prefer a loose leg and are content to go their way without reminder, plodding forth in their own rhythm, reluctantly changing that pace to the whim of the rider. This is partially, I am sure, due to the fact that these are safari camels who have trodden the same path for years. But this is only partially the reason, for I saw the same pace and manner when driven by tribesmen across the sandy vastness.

There was, however, one exception. As we sat on a dune, far, far away from the city and its sound, we heard singing! Looking over the top of a dune, I see, about one kilometer in the distance, splashes of red against the honey colored dunes. Gypsy women were returning from dancing and singing for hotel tourists. They are now on their way home to their village and their cheerful voices, raised in song against the darkening sky pierce the air with sweetness and joy. As they walk, a group of camels disengages itself from the ruby red jewels – boys on camels. These camels had also been at a hotel, offering rides to tourists, and they, too, were on their way home to another village. Women go one way and boys, hollering and shouting, go the other. They certainly had those camels moving, trotting and cantering across flat land and dunes. Shouts of encouragement and delight –a boy’s dream. Our guide had a half whistful smile. “Fun for the boys. Not so fun for the camels.” After our days on camelback, I suspect that their slow plod is one of reluctance and not an inability. Why hurry in this vast, vast world? And after two days in the desert, the world finally, finally receding to the slow pace of nature, I have to agree with the wisdom of the camel.

Imagine, walking and trotting through scrub and up windswept dunes. A few tracks of camel and goat, lizard and … dog crisscross along the sand and sometimes go up the golden dunes, but most of the dunes are barren of tracks and life. There are sculpted peaks, in front, behind, to each side. We thread our way around and over. Sometimes, Robert’s nose begins to quest in tight circles, and then, over the horizon comes other camels being led to water or a nearby village. It is all so remote, so simple, so real. On our first trip (Eleanor talked me into TWO camel safaris!), I just want to run and run and run. Fortunately, Robert is a young camel, and he is quite willing to indulge in a trot. A run is a little too energetic even for such a young camel.

On the longer trip, we sit under a tree during the hottest part of the day. The camels, hobbled with soft ropes, wander to forage in the scrub. We eat and rest. At 4:00, we continue onward and stop at some wells in the middle of the desert – a meeting place between several villages. There is not one well here, but several. They are all served by the same water, but each well is used by people of different caste. Caste and custom is maintained, everywhere. The guides tell us which are the Brahmin wells, which the tribes, which are for gypsies and untouchables. I found that rather interesting. Rajasthan is where the gypsies from all over the world originated. Everywhere, they are treated with suspicion and distrust. Everywhere, people are fascinated by their song and their independence – fascinated, but afraid, too. I always thought, however, that here it would be different – here they might have more of a place. But it is not really so. The wandering gypsies, here as elsewhere, are a world apart. Wild. Untameable. Not to be boxed in four walls. Not understood. Fascinating. Enticing. And for that reason, a little frightening. What is it that calls in the soul when these wild ones go by? Haunting invitations to a life unencumbered.

We ride for a few hours until we come to a high dune. The camels lie down and we dismount. Sunset is near and we climb the dune, to watch, to be, to think, to … run madly down the dune laughing and yelling in delight. Mr. Desert is our guide. He is THE Mr. Desert – the man from Rajasthan who was the icon of India and cigarette ads from 15 years ago. He only occasionally comes out on tours now, but a friendly challenge sends us all rolling down the dune. Spinning earth and sky and sand everywhere. I slept in sand later that night – and it was worth it.

Eleanor wanders away and ten minutes later I follow her tracks. We sit, alone amongst the dunes and watch the sun dropping, out of sight. So, so quiet. The quiet is almost complete, and yet, there is the occasional call of a bird, even in this far flung land.

We walk back to the camels and have a ten minute trot in the waning light. A campfire twinkles in the distance with pots simmering on the open flames. Home for a night. Blankets, food, water, a few essentials tucked away in a cloth purse. Comb, toothbrush, toilet paper, water … and the liberating discovery that I really only needed the comb and water. Nothing else is needed. Nothing else is wanted. We eat, a story is told, and we lie in wonder under the majesty of a star strewn sky.

We have been in India for three months. For three months, my only concern has been when to leave, where to go, and how to get there. It has all become very simple. And yet, coming into nature once again, I realized how the ambience of the city – even a small town like Jailsalmar – still leaves its mark of agitation. As the days passed, the nervous energy slowly, slowly dissipates. I want to run less, to be more. Finally, finally my body slows down to the rhythm of nature. Free.

***

During our final plod back toward Jaisalmar, I wonder how fast we can go through Rajasthan – and to the mountains. Everyone tells me how wonderful Rajasthan is – and they are right. The cities, the architecture, the textiles, the people. But the desert has gotten into my soul, nature is calling. I want to be away. A voice inside reminds me, “Be here. Be now. Slowly. Slowly.”

Tomorrow, we leave. Tonight. A procession with the maharaja to a sacred lake in the desert.

Linda: Sunlight on a Golden City, March 26

Sunlight on a Golden City

An overnight train leaving a large city quickly crosses into the vast and open desert. Twenty hours later, and we arrive in this fairytale landscape of blue sky and carved gold - the gold being the color of the warm sandstone here. Jailsamar – the center of the Silk Trade Route for hundreds and hundreds of years. It has always remained independent, a place tied with the Moguls and the British, but never completely under them. A place always, and still, uniquely itself. This town was on the verge of slowly disappearing due to Partition and tensions with nearby Pakistan. However, the increased presence of the military as well as a canal funded by the government under Indira Gandhi which subsequently encouraged tourism gave it a new life. The townspeople responded intelligently. All construction in the town is in the traditional Jaisalmer style – intricate stone carvings on balconies and beautiful wooden shutters over windows. Now, there is a shift from new construction to reconstruction and the old, old havelis are beginning to come to life. One haveli in particular is undergoing major reconstruction and serves as a museum as well as an example of the lush lifestyle of the extremely wealthy merchants of the time: carved and painted ceilings, elaborate and detailed mural paintings, rooms of mirrors and ornamentation, silver beds and tables and chairs, open kitchens on upper floors – all surrounding open courtyards that are the real center of the home.

We wander through the streets of this old city on the edge of the desert. It is just past the real tourist season, though there is still a steady trickle of tourists. Some shops are already closed for the hot summer months, though most are, thankfully, still opened. It is hot and the rooms in our hotels are not designed to catch every breath of wind like the old mansions or havelis that are interspersed throughout the town. On the second night, I am, for the first time, grateful for air conditioning.

This is a quiet, enchanting city with warm people. They offer help, and, I discovered, it is a genuine offer and not just a way to entice you into a shop or into a sale. Their offer to help is genuine and, like all hospitality here, is complete. Our first encounter was in a visit to the first haveli, or mansion, built outside of the fort. It was built by a very powerful prime minister, who, we’ve heard had a fearsome reputation. The king must also have been adequately cowed, for he allowed him to build a mansion outside the fort that was as tall as his own palace. Once the prime minister died, however, the heirs had to remove the top two floors of the haveli to bring it down to a more proper level. The haveli, like all old constructions, is a marvel of desert architecture. It can be seven years here between rains! And a good year for rain is one with only 2-3 centimeters. All the water comes from a lake in the distance or from a well. It was hoarded and used to the absolute final drop. To make these beautiful stone homes, no mortar and no water was used. The stones were dressed to fit flat against one another and were joined by interlocking joints (like in Legos) AND, in the more load bearing structures, by iron rods that now only joined the two stones, but had a ring on one end that swiveled and locked into the heart of the next stone. Lotus decorations at the end of archways could be unscrewed and stored, put up only during festivals. Water used for bathing was collected and sent down a floor to be used for washing, which was collected and used for washing floors, and then for cleaning latrines and as fertilizer. Money was stored in secret places in the walls, tucked away and then mortored into place, absolutely invisible. On one place in the women’s quarter, mortar had been scraped away to reveal Arabic script. I was told that the Arabic told where some of the treasure had been secreted within the house. As we were leaving, I began talking with the guide and discovered, to my delight, that he was the direct descendent of this prime minister. His knowledge of the house was sincere and his great love was to share it with others. He was delighted in our interest and saddened by others who came and looked and didn’t respond. It was, I suspect, a difference of cultures rather than an indifference, which I tried to explain. Soon, his son would receive his name. Alas, the name date was set at the same time as a holiday to be celebrated at the Maharaja’s. Would we like to go instead? Will we be there on the 30th? It seems that the written invitation is a new idea. Traditionally, and to this date, the real invitation will be when the maharaja passes by in procession. Eyes meet. Intentions are said through the eyes. To this day, that is the real invitation. Dinner with his family if we are still in town? Please come back. And so it is in this great land of open handed hospitality.

We thread our way through tiny streets, visiting the palace and other havelis, sitting in shops, buying and seeing amazing Rajasthani textiles, drinking tea, and listening to stories. We see astoundingly beautiful things, all displayed for our perusal and admiration and the conversation spins out for an hour or two after any purchase – or no purchase – is made. The joy is in the conversation, the tea, the meeting of minds. This happens again and again, in the shops, on the streets.

Outside the ancient fort, village women in colorful tribal dress and full regalia of jewelry sit and sell anklets. Some of the anklets are inexpensive and silver colored, others are beautifully worked silver. Admittedly, I was completely enchanted by their outgoing nature and colorful attire – as well as the husband in the background playing a soulful stringed instrument. I want to buy from them, mostly to support their way of life than out of a desire to buy anklets. The much cultivated buying savvy fled and I am sure we paid way too much for the merchandise. This was compounded by the fact that, in wanting to buy from more than one person, we ended up buying from everyone but two women, which meant, of course, that it was only right to buy from them as well! The situation was heightened by a bright moment in Eleanor’s day. While the women were bargaining with me, she was happily playing music with this Rajasthani gypsy. There she sat, under the high walls of a golden fort, surrounded by tribal women, and learning music to the great delight of all. Again, the inherent honesty and good will of these people came to the fore. They gave Eleanor extra necklaces, one was quite nice, and invited us to their homes for more lessons and music. Maybe? It’s only five minutes away. But, not tonight. Tonight we wander the meandering streets, trying to make sense of the maze, and enjoying the play of color on the stones as the sun begins to set.

The other little, and yet pivotal, event of the day was our visit with the camels. This, this is the place where one can take camels into the Great Thar Desert – an archetypal desert if there ever was one. Our hotel manager arranged a visit with some camels just outside. How would Eleanor, with her asthma and her allergies, do with these animals? A tentative pat – and no reaction! Then, I watched as she stroked, smelled, rubbed, and placed her face right on the camel. NO REACTION! Her face was one of sheer delight and joy. All those medicines, all those precautions, all the care of people who have been working with her – and here she was, finally, caressing this magnificent animal with the perennial smile. And, the consequence, the dream she had been holding near to her heart, was to become a reality. For tomorrow, tomorrow we would go out to spend the day and night in the desert … on camel.